The last thing that I can do is to say that I am a failure. I can acknowledge my mistakes and misdeeds. But I cannot allow myself to not believe that tomorrow I can turn it all around. If I do I am dead. I am my families final chapter. They live within me. I am their history. Their entire lifetime all within me. Does it matter to the world? It matters not. They meant something, their lives and the dreams they instilled within me. I am their future as well as their past and I have gone fallow, Deep down within under the rubble of a life collapsed is the same little boy that would run to the comfort of his daddy’s arms to feel the love that was too quickly extinguished by the rueful circumstances of unstable life. In the end, I found much to our mutual regret that I had not cared as much for him as he did for me. At least not till he was past caring taken away by the inevitable natural cycle of birth and finally death. To late, my heart poured forth once again what it dare not admit while he was alive. Such was the great degree of my latent fear within. A fear that my sense of being in love would no longer be welcomed as an adult. A fear that I would have to surrender to the crushing mark of being a failed son. The one and only that could not outgrow his father long and ever widening shadow. In that I felt that I had truly failed. How could I not? He was a much greater man than ever I could have imagined. Than I found that I ever could be. Great because despite all the bad hands that he was dealt in life, he continued to persevere despite insurmountable odds. Angry sometimes? Sure! But never despairing always heading forward despite sheltering both my mother and I despite his own meandering inner flaws. No monument in my estimation could ever be built high enough to match his humble stature. A man who lived in the shadow of that larger than life personality that he himself created. Someone that despite how brash and brusque his unrefined manner appeared to me at the time would much later elicit posthumous comments of how that same demeanor would be sorely missed. Someone that many from all walks of life felt that they could call friend. This was the pattern that defines the direction of the weave of the cloth from which I am cut. My father. Someone that I so often regret the loss of and harbor that desire to be beside as I once was before. Just to reach up and find his warm hand holding my own yet again.
Mirriam decided to meet her girlfriend at the Leadenhall Market for lunch accompanied by her thirteen year old daughter Melissa and her American friend Jemma. They had taken a Route 43 double-decker bus traveling on London Bridge across the Thames picking it up by the old George Inn. They could have taken the ‘tubes‘ but her daughter insisted upon ‘going tourist‘ for the sake of her new companion. The two chattered away as Mirriam fixed her thoughts on the possibility of joining the Momentum Party to support ‘back bencher‘, Jeremy Corbyn. The Brexit affair had led to many angst based discussions and her heart of hearts that told her Labor party’s efforts to ease the tensions caused by recent terrorist events was necessary to safeguard her daughter’s future through conciliation. The growing Islamic community in Sutton had recently become the focus of repeated hate based graffiti attacks and as a Liberal minded modern career woman she felt it her duty to help push back against the increasingly violent right wing conservative sentiments of the ‘block-headed‘ right wing UKIP movement. Though Dulwich Village was more than a stones throw away it was evident that her neighbors were being affected this ongoing turmoil as well.
This morning seemed unusually sunny and bright for her two companions to babble about the surrounding wonders of the surrounding embankment. The upper seats were mostly empty save for some noisy tourists busily pointing back and forth and just beyond their midst a very mild looking bearded ethnic young man wearing a buttoned up raincoat. The end of Spring had brought several days of moderate weather and it seemed curious that the young man would be bundled so. The spate of changeable weather of the last several years that to her mind had supported the unpopular notion to more conservative tastes of the coming dangers of Global warming had affected everyone’s decisions as to outerwear of course. But she couldn’t help staring at the young man’s face as he seemed to be chanting something to himself in between his own furtive look scanning the scenery about him looking repeatedly towards the reflected sun from the gleaming glass of the towering white ‘Walkie Talkie’ building over the river. An unsettling feeling hit Mirriam in the pit of her stomach that something was gravely amiss. Feeling somewhat ashamed she stopped herself. It seemed that the recent mass hysteria of the recent attack in Westminster was still fresh in everyone’s mind. The easiest thing to do would be to single out anyone with swarthy ethnic features as possible culprits. It rankled her that she was falling prey to the same prejudice that she was trying to avoid infecting her daughter. She herself was not particularly drawn to the new groups of immigrants, especially the African ones. They had been showing up unexpectedly on street corners, with nothing to do idling on their government stipends. Some of them menacingly so! But like all human beings they were deserved of respect and not be singled out for the fact of their backgrounds however humble or challenging that might be. Mirriam turned back to watch her two wards for the morning as Melissa seemed rapt in pointing out Millbank further up the Thames not he other side of the bridge. The sharp flash of a detonation’s instant barely caught her attention.
Mirriam seemed suddenly distracted. Her mind out of place? As if having somehow lost her place along the way in following the tight narrative of a novel. Try as she might, she could not recover the expected view of embankment architecture that had just before filled the landscape across the bridge from of the window of the bus. Her eyes could only focus on a distant somewhat obscured horizon just before the break of dawn. She knew that she was standing upon hot sand but could feel a cool morning breeze rising up around her almost as if she was completely unclothed. She tilted her head down suddenly but this motion was interrupted by what appeared to be a roughly hewn wooden yoke. One that extend from where it encroached around her neck extending many centimeters forward to the back of another woman’s head. To Miriam’s shock the other woman was standing still and completely nude with slender wrists chains firmly attached behind her! Mirriam tried to cry out but now found that a wooden dowel had also been equally mysteriously tightly fastened between her teeth precluding any ability at intelligible speech. She made a quick attempt to bring her hands up to dislodge it in order to freely speak. But her arms were also tightly ensconced within the unbreakable grip of iron wristlets. A heavy iron chain attached to the other unfortunate’s wrists just before her led backwards swinging low between her own knees and back up the small of her back attached to her own manacles. A white flash blanketed her mind as she sought to expel her present impressions in order reconcile the disparity of what had just an instant before been a bus ride through central London. And how it would have been possible to end up so vulnerable in this totally unexpected situation of appalling physical slavery? Had an accident occurred? Was this some sort of heavily narcotic induced dream or a coma? She raised her chin up against the tight fit of her end of the yoke and scanned the view ahead once again as best she could. Taking in the horror and amazement of scores of women standing equally despicable circumstances, haltered like farm animals held motionless within their respective fetters silhouetted against the waxing dusk of an ever brightening desert sun. Her thoughts immediately raced back to her two children. Where were they? The uncompromising yoke tightly locking her neck to the preferred forward position scratching painfully into tender flesh as she turned to and fro attempting to find if her daughter and her companion might be somewhere close in sight. Twisting to the left and then the right with tears welling in her eyes as she found her daughter’s own slender now frame fully exposed. Naked and fully expose before the equally tightly harnessed form of her American friend. Both shivering in terror within the cold wind. Unable to move, shifting their weight to try to move beyond the boundaries that their heavy bonds allowed. Mirriam began a long low helpless animal moan. But was cut short by the sharp stinging pain of hard leather crop biting acoiss her fully exposed buttocks!
“Kunn kafir radian!“, a male voice roughly spat out. The smart of the pain was followed instantly by a heavily bearded face. Though Mirriam’s conscious mind had suffered mightily within the last few moments from each lurid horrible discovery her eyes opened incredulously wide at the sight of the person standing before her. It was the young Middle Eastern man that she had been looking at on the bus before all this had happened. She tried to drone out some words as concisely as possible given that her mouth was restrained by the chunk of wood. The same young man was now dressed in intricately appointed Arabian silk robes. A cloth of gold turban of a sheik absurdly topping his head above a beard that had equally fanatically grown in length and bushiness. “Be still abayd khadae!“, he spat as his whip came down hard once again upon her. His narrowed eyes seemed to seethe with a boundless arrogant pride. He passed by her walking up and down the line of the many scores of women who squirmed slightly as he passed. It struck Mirriam that his expression was reminicent of the owner of a herd of sheep or cattle. She looked over at her daughter again who now was stared back in a terrible heartbreaking expression that seemed equally choked by fear and the pain of physical distress. The little Sultan came by her and seeing her looking off away from him ruthlessly swung his whip hard against the adolescent’s naked white back leaving the spread of a widening welt. Mirriam exploded into a loud physically suppressed shriek of rage. Hot blooded tears flooding across her eye singing them as the chains restraining her body clinked away merrily in mockery of her total impotence. “Leave my daughter alone!”, her mind screamed with such force that it seemed to blast out through her eye sockets! The little potentate turned back towards Mirriam with a malevolent looking toothsome grin. “Do not worry khinzir mother!” “I have eternity to convert your daughter and her seventy-one other companions into the most blessed ways of Allah in pleasing me in every way.” “They are my reward for sacrificing myself to kill off you infidels in our glorious jihad, Allah be praised!” The full horror of the moment struck Mirriam. Though she had herself never been religious enough in life to accept a belief in God or an afterlife she was now shocked to find that she had been in error to not seriously entertain it. Worse yet! it seemed to be a heaven that fully favored the Muslims! It seemed apparent that this cruel upstart of a young man had been a suicide bomber. And that his final mortal act had been rewarded with the gift of the body and souls of his victims. She seemed to recall something about virgins in heaven? But as she pondered the fact that she herself was definitely no longer a virgin though of course her poor thirteen year old daughter and her companion were, the evil little prince seemed to pick up on the thought. “Worry not infidel eahira!” “You are soon to taste your just reward for denying Allah in the eternal flames of burning Hell that will roast your flesh and boil your belly forever!” As if by some unseen cue or anonymously issued command Mirriam felt herself pulled roughly forward by the line of struggling women before her. The sands beneath the burning the soles of her bare feet growing ever hotter as she and the others were marched off into the desert. The little man’s final, “Allu al Akhbar”, being the last human words that she would ever eternally know.
The last two decades of life have proven to me that I have lost a lot of my own long held naivete about what are now considered foolish notions. I have lost the magical ability to feel any sense of desire for current examples of contemporary women both old or young. Not that it matters to them at all as I know that all women in our time are perfectly happy that the tyrannical yoke of unwanted male interest in them has been lifted from their shoulders and now is permanently erased! Thank god that men can universally embrace their feminine side of demonstrating quiet passivity in public while women may freely strut around exercising their long suppressed aggressive inner nature’s at will without any dominant male society interference or censure. Misguided males have been institutionally exiled to watching dated mental masturbatorial Hollywood epics of women indentured by romance provided by men that only possesses an inherent ‘macho’ male paternal sensibility. The exterior world run be the strict rules of mentally inscribed institutionally governed and workplace enforced principles of dominant feminism.
Of course, this is not the type of world that has any attraction for me! That is totally my own flaw of advancing chronological age. A flaw akin to a previous penchant of being charmed in a way that only women from a long ago bygone detestable era could be. Charmed by the misguided virtues of inherent their care taken in sensual appearance supporting a flirtatious nature equal in overt interest in the other gender. One that inspired the rougher sex to bring flowers or open car doors or show up expecting a frequent unoccasioned kiss might fire up the emotions of that desirable female that fell prey to making him the center of her world. That bygone sense of natural symbiosis when, bereft of lurking LBGT Disney Corporation modern fairy tales, Prince Charming’s courted icy Snow Whites bringing life back to them with a simple passionate heartfelt kiss. Foreign Legion bound Gary Cooper’s could not erase dispossessed French cabaret singers who then might follow them across the burning desert sands in bare feet. All the old poppycock that took away from one’s future haigh paying job or career independence. And saw some men portrayed in the cinema as only wanting the lasting gift of once more wearing a pair of golden earrings to share their remaining lives with smelly unwashed Gypsy maidens as half ‘gadsi’. Foolish notions indeed!
Most contemporary women are unburdened by the lost art of attracting men, of course. Thank god it only now involves dressing up like once was referred to as a slut to ply easy drinks from the exemplary broad shouldered tight abbed man of their choice at the local bar. Ones from recent generations having been properly schooled in the preparatory scholastic environments of childhoods spent in daycare environments with ever commanding Politically Correct female ‘minders’ provided as surrogate ‘mothers’. The fathers far removed living distant from the singular parented household by some pivotal point in time as a lasting lesson that male female relationships were never meant to be permanent only convenient. All this while their saintly mothers enrapture daily existence with the fact of the burden of them them making the unimaginable sacrifice in somehow maintaining both career and motherhood. Young boys growing up properly mannered to understand that they are not important as their own female siblings in a world that values only the promotion of a form of diversity that does not include them or any of their ‘amle’ aspirations. Young men being so much happier now that any impediment to sexual gratification need not be burdened by anything more than demonstrating being handy to a desirable woman or readily available when it is time to pay the check. And of course, when the whim for intimacy strikes their female companion being amenable to the guidelines of sexual satisfaction that favor her. Things are so much better now than in those dark times of before when both sexes never were sure of where they stood in the thoughts of another! When they had to take the risk of exposing their true feelings in hope of some mutuality of life purpose that was not so easily reckoned or accountable to future security. Charles Dickens might have cast his darker tales like Oliver Twist or Great Expectations in a more favorable light if those times had been as equally enlightened as things are today. How far we have all come!
In this culture little white boys cry while little girls don’t. It is a shock to see this happen. But then is exposes something unexpected. A truth to the light of day. Little boys are put in an impossible position of not being able to express themselves as males where in a feminized world little girls have no restrictions. It has become a bygone appreciation in this culture to celebrate masculinity as an inherent virtue. In fact it has been demonized. Violence is accepted as a form of ethnic self-expression for both sexes. But is considered taboo for the most excluded segment of anyone of white Aryan Christian European heritage. The dogma taught being that they are most responsible for all the social ills of the current world. The actual historical truth suppressed being the exact opposite. Western society allowing itself to be overwhelmed by the fact of an internal cultural killer virus superficially referred to at ground level as organized Judaism. The cloistered fact of same violating the convenient conception of labels suggesting old rivals so much as covert alliances of several ‘desert based’ religious philosophies that stretch back literal eons. The serum distorting the natural inclinations of male and female in terms of producing healthy intellectual savvy healthy generations being amorphously termed as Liberalism or Political Correctness. Essentially crafty programs that have been carefully devised to program the host population from cradle to grave into self-destructive mindsets and self-defeating actions. The equivalent of gaining poser over the most important and influential centers of control over society and dissolving same much in the manner that an organism is devoured slowing being bundled up in a web by an arachnid. Toxic notions bombarding the culture incessantly through the destruction of the minds of the young with insidious half-truths that invert the perspectives in a manner characterized by authors like George (Blair) Orwell. We of the most sullied demographic are in a war for out own survival with people that nestle too comfortably among us that seek out annihilation.
The knee jerk reaction is too call this absurd of course. Even to suggest such a theory in current society being termed unacceptable. That in itself is the most telling clue. If you wish to find out an inescapable truth then start with the actions of those who anyone is not allowed to question as to their culpability for any untoward action. The penalty that the questioner faces of course is an instant form of societal enforced exile. The reason for the fear of same being so prevalent in European heritage whites being that the sledge hammer of the popular Liberal dominated media constantly fashions scenarios that offer only total destruction through negative branding of any personage that does so. Like any other long lost empire of old gone senile through its own decadence the United States has submitted itself to its own destruction by falling prey to those who would subvert it through guile. At one time without he help of mass technology literally building a false narrative upon a well-crafted a false persona taken from a time of two totally unnecessary world wars that only served to destroy the best elements of Western culture. Then replacing them with moral equivalencies that only serve to hasten a final and complete genocide of anything ‘white’. The most absurd part of this unthinkable crime being that the key element being the enfranchisement of dogmatically infertile ‘white’ females as the most dominate gatekeepers encouraged by false notions of social victimization. The European part of the species doomed to extinction because what was once termed as ‘the weaker sex’ has become its own worst enemy. Whites are caught in a mile of commercially funded media that is total toxic garbage. They send their children to schools that discard traditional topics promoting functionally self-survival and replace them with this media harangue that elevates the lowest common denominators of society as a model of exemplary behavior.
This is by no stretch of the imagination an accidental situation some of unintended consequences as one might inadvertently mix two substances unadvisedly together to create a poison. Take any given segment of key element of this society in Western countries and find that it has at best been sublimated to the goals of an organized sect that uses the reigning international corporate hegemony as an infallible lever. All one has to do is examine the system of finance that allows this segment to make their wealth out of thin air from the ever increasing sweat of all portions of society that are made to work ever harder to get ever less. A system where the governments of every country on earth are connected by a single system of commerce based upon unsecured debt. The lender merely creating a piece of paper called a contract where the debtor promises to pay future wages in order to get credit from the company store. The role of same eventually becoming a small ruling elite that keep and iron grip on the common people through a government that enforces this cooperate hegemony without exception passing wealth upward and implementing further duress upon the have nots to squeeze them even more. All the while indoctrinating them with a totally inverted viewpoint of the would where they are led to believe that those of their own that resist this tyranny are to blame for it. The eventual goal of this world system being to completely segment all cultures and make them slaves through an interdependence that defiles their national and cultural independence. One group ever encouraged to be spiteful and envious of the other during an interim period as they destroy their own cultures through social and physical attrition. Not just a destruction of the European segment but eventually of every other segment into an ever willing population of domesticated sheep having no defining rebellious traits that would interfere with their own planned use and eventual destruction. Take the analogy of Orwell’s world and put Caligula at the helm and find the perfect analogy for the world of tomorrow if it is allowed to continue as ti currently seems to be.
It is. Like time past yet quiet. And I am alone now. Totally so. The Sun escapes the clouds stretching forth in the latter part of the afternoon ahead of the approaching dusk. It’s brilliance brightens this painfully empty room full and filled too high with a former life’s manifestation of passing memory. Of experiences many and brief with those now finally departed. Dust no longer of a lineage their wanting presence. The shadows are too deep reaching down into that insatiable emotion that I wish hide. Age has been the curse of bitter sorrow. The vows of youth all betrayed.
So many faces long gone from exact representation within and swept into the past. And it will not stop its slow slide into oblivion until I along with all the others are long gone. I am blinded by the last attempts of this Sun to imitate a suggestion of midday. The shadows soften behind the intensity of glare blinding me and yet the plethora of contents of this room have become merely so. They have lost the inertia of their mental continuum and are merely things. Suggesting many others that have disappeared years and eons before them. Objects that now belong to me but are not mine to give. The fruit of my father’s life’s work and the sore pitiful remnants of his tenuous existence. And that of my mother’s endless creativity expressed through its arrangement. Compositions in life as they were upon paper and canvas. Keepsakes that grow ever more dusty, old and inert. Unable to emote. Too late I realize that those human beings that brought them here no longer inhabit them. These artifacts are just dead dumb things that have no name. Things that I have stumbled into along the way to this persisting point in time. I wait for a familiar rustle of another. But nothing. The quiet Sun reaches into my heart with its waning warmth finding only a nervous cold. The ether swims about me. That familiar choking tension significant of fear and regret. Proof that I have been left finally alone at long last.
This unconscious vigil is useless. The old arrangements that I adhere to. The reverence in proper placement of these ritual objects that I bestow in the keeping of them all around me being dreadfully misplaced. The Sun is dying for another day. Is this what it is to mourn? To despise your own blockheaded foolishness each evening as the minutes tick away into insignificance and an accumulation of useless years of them meticulously stacked and sorted? What is left to offer? It is all long spent now. The inheritance squandered. The old fantasies dissipated into thin air. Its truth now inescapable. A firing squad could bring more comfort than this empty knowledge of all this! Where I finally am not. To health to just pass on. Condemned to this lonely cavern where veiled sorrow sucks the life out of one. How much longer? Only charred ashes nearly an hour’s drive behind faux stone in a communal crypt. The simile of the morning of one for the other now compounded with interest by its example. Something that though guilty, I refuse to follow. Escape in the most ruthless of ways. Silent and trying to suppress. The most horrible of tortures! To be buried alive within yourself!
The light fails around me and the room becomes dim. My failing vision scans across the horizon of pictures and faces and objects once revered within of their ceremonial cabinets surrounding cluttered tables and permanently emptied chairs. This place maintained to house ghosts that refuse to make their presence known. Phalanxes of fading photographs lined up of trivial lost instants in time manifested into gold. The crutch of inconvenient recollection. A brief mental outline of their import. A memory of shared experience sandwiched within the last occasion of recollection colored with immediate loss. My own life let out of the hole in this balloon as if in slow motion. Item and incident. Chapter and verse. Each one discarded in a glance. Tossed in a hat like a deck of cards in casually useless hands. An unfamiliar hotel somewhere in a city where no one is known. Some say that all this is inert clay of a type that is dug out of the grave. Each night I dig a hole. But by morning it is filled in once again. I am drunk on my own regrets. I who never enjoyed success and had none o show those that I loved. A rat biting a human heart.
I dare not close my eyes for the light fails as the copper disk grazes the horizon. The empty sky above it neutral. Not beautiful nor dark. Just lackluster and threatening to give way. receding into nothingness. I fear that I am too full of memories that I can no longer share. Incidents that relate to no one else’s life that I care to know. Speaking French to the Indians. Tiny grim silhouettes on the distant horizon in the direction of where I once worked. Incidents blatantly similar in that instant of the moment taken in from another vantage point. Life is like the wind. Something that pushes past but that you cannot hold onto. Or dare not try. No smiles of satisfaction left for any incident. Only the present tense to confound one. I am the only thing that is alive now. A simile to my own metaphors. I light the lamp in the curio cabinet that is no longer lit. Its contents known to have once had meaning in both some significant event or at the moment of purchase? Strangers to me. I wonder to myself how long I will remain imprisoned? Enslaved to impossible hopes of summoning the life of the past and reawakening in it as if the present is just some wild enchanted fever struck dream. Perhaps that unquenchable rage within will begin to smash and destroy all these things? But still the ghosts will not come to haunt or hell. There in the dark, alone.
Many aspiring actors convinced to try out different characters in a bizare form of prothestic makeup of oversized faces. Displaying same in different public spaces with any warning. William Shatner in a Turkish airport dressed up like Humpty Dumpty! Or some moron that was filling in for him when he wanted a smoke and went on break? All of this insanity went on to be eventually televised. A sort of terrorist event? Unsuspectedly, publicly exposing the various people that participated in it. They going on the continue to work upon the dynamics of their respective character’s effect in the most absurd of situations.
Something like that over there in Paris where they have all those indigent Muslim hanging about the streets and swimming pools. Like someone who really was who was posing as someone who really wasn’t posing at all but who was posing like someone who really was trying to do so! There, where their latrine was their sink!
A Wisconsin fishing lodge filled with a bunch of old timers. Old farts, they all sit around and watch TV and eat cheese and passing gas between wheezy tall tales. A six-foot long unwound rind of cheese slowly yellowing tacked end to end horizontal at waist level along the wood paneled wall. Somewhat as a display of local pride one might suppose? But to whom? It was getting late. Or early? Or something! And I bellow out to the lot of them, “Let me, I’ll go upstairs and stay by the TV room!” “And when I’m done, I’ll make sure to turn it off.” The rest of them grunt and groan stiffly rising unsteadily and walked downstairs hobbling out of the place into the night.
The garbage men slowly drove their truck down the dirt alley out in back. Hollering out every once and a while to each of the brand new suburban homes on either side of the narrow trail to bring out their garbage. Their calls awakening me early so that was I standing on the bed in my pajamas and then shoving my nose against the broken screen in the new Summer’s dawn to view this commotion going on at the back of our house. It was the middle of the nineteen-fifties and such arcane occurrences were common back then.
I awoke in what seemed one of those plains driven towns far West of the Mississippi somewhere. the highest elevation of the majority of the terrain being no taller than your own head or so it seemed, There was a small town filled with those whose ancestors had stopped there their initiative in this world having just plain run out of gas. One thing that was evident among them however was a fierce abidance with the material laws of man in the form of thou shall not steal being up their with the penalties for premeditated murder. Now my own memory of events seemed to be as challenged as the folks for this town as I recall some thing about a couple of pals that unlike their neighbors were quick to scheme how they could continue on West along the path that their ancestors of a generation or two back had abandoned. They thought to accomplish this initially through invention of some form of newfangled inexplicable type of invention that if it did not function in some useful manner would at least wow its onlookers and convince them otherwise. To do this they were a bit too free with materials. Some of which just happened to disappear from the back of the local hardware and livery. Though no direct eyewitness evidence beyond the physical presence of the device existed. The most damning of the purloined items consisting of little more than a similar likeness of a large sheet of tin that was hanging from the device’s bolted armature. Something that a passerby might have spied as one of the boys held it out at arm’s length. Hearsay being the closest tie condemning the boys to the charge of grand theft. Word went quickly around the town to be on the look out for them as someone saw them fiddling on its edge by the prairie assembling their gadget.
Being no fools rhey took off a running and a riding towards a part of the country that was known as ‘robber’s roost’. The small posse of townsfolk delegated by happenstance pursuit having to stop short and suspend all plans for an immediate capture of these malfeasant’s as it became apparent that they had disappeared into the paradise of their filching brethren. The many lawbreakers nested in this area sitting high upon an artificial man-made hill that allowed for distant viewing far down the local road passing through. Able to determine the size of any oncoming force, that depending on its size, called for either fight or flight. Safe for the moment one of the boy returned to a restaurant of a family member settled nearby. A two-story white wooden clapboard family dwelling by the wide roadside intersection below the hill. The lee side of which had been built out into a one story extension containing a small dining room. The young man walking down the road observing the weather taking a stormy bent. Then noticing the dark fingers of congealing clouds not too far in the distance commencing their slow motion swirl into one angry massive funnel cloud. A tornado! The subsidiary winds passing swiftly by the young man suggesting that the eventual target would be his extended family branch’s main enterprise. Running like a demon he tore down the road across the intersection and into the front door screaming ‘tornado‘ and ‘to the basement quick‘. The several small tables of diner’s needing no further urging as they made a mad rush down the adjoining hall to the entrance just below the stairwell by the residence’s main parlor. The most likely mental picture of the event startlingly similar to a violently disturbed swarm of bees.
The commencement of rumbling and shaking above the refuge of the storm cellar making them all wonder what might be found still standing when they ascended after the violence above had subsided? To everyone’s surprise the structure that had been their refuge was almost completely untouched. This seemed highly curious as every other structure in the near vicinity surrounding the building had been near to completely demolished. No one milling about in the chaotic aftermath could figure it out until by chance one of them looked skyward to notice an odd foreign configuration of tin and bolted parts hanging off the gingerbread of the front gable of their unaffected wooden structure. Completely innocuous and inert and completely out of place sat their protector. The invention that the boys had dreamed up that had occasioned the unscheduled visit. No explanation as to how it had gotten lodged way up there and even more of an enigma as to what sort of effect that it had wrought upon the massive funnel’s path allowing for the rescue of the edifice from it. Such are the strange and oft related tales of the endless American plains.